


I'll Let You Play The Role

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Take Me To The Stars [37]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Roleplay, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: "I like it when you take controlEven if you know that you don'tOwn me, I'll let you play the role..."The Doctor had asked Clara to take the upper hand. She just hadn't imagined Clara throwing herself into the role with quite such enjoyment.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Series: Take Me To The Stars [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1139201
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	I'll Let You Play The Role

**Author's Note:**

> From Micktrex's prompt:
> 
> _Clara and Thirteen do a roleplay in the TARDIS console room where Clara is the "villain" and has the upper hand on the Doctor. Though the dramatic confrontation soon turns into something more heated..._
> 
> Sorry it's taken so long to post; my queue is huge! M for implied smuttiness.

“So.”

Clara’s voice is ice-cold, as clipped and measured as she can manage to render it. The soft edges of her vowels and consonants, so usually rounded off by her northern lilt, are now accentuated and over-pronounced, matching the staccato _tap-tap-tap_ of her heels as she circles the console, her eyes locked on the figure in front of her. This particularly vertiginous pair of stilettos are far taller than she’s used to, elevating her to a lofty height that renders her almost eye-to-eye with the Doctor, but it isn’t the newly-increased elevation which is making her feel dizzy; she owes that sensation entirely to lust.

She looks over at the Doctor, trying and failing to resist the urge to smirk as she does so. She’d wanted to avoid clichés with this little game, and yet she has already succumbed to so many – the red lipstick, the black coat, the power heels, the bondage. The smirk adds another layer of the stereotypical to the whole scenario, but somehow that only serves to heighten her enjoyment. Let her be a cliché; the prone figure in front of her is certainly not complaining.

The Doctor is, in the simplest of terms, tied to one of the TARDIS’s columns. There are more complicated ways to phrase it – special names for the knots she’s used, nouns that apply to the exact sort of rope, lexical meanings and implications and connotations to the safeword they’ve agreed – and yet now, faced with one incapacitated Time Lord, the only words Clara can coherently think is ‘tied up lady.’ Not a promising start for an English teacher, but then again – she isn’t an English teacher now. Not in this life, and certainly not at this precise moment; certainly not as she smirks over at the Doctor and then bites down on her lip, worrying at the crimson-painted skin with her teeth and watching the Doctor swallow thickly as her eyes are drawing, irresistibly, to the plump, suggestive fullness of her scarlet-painted lips.

“So,” she says again, because she’s lost her train of thought now, too caught up in her enjoyment of the tangible effect this is having on the Time Lord before her. The Doctor is looking at her with an expression of such openness and desperation that Clara finds herself torn between desire and adoration; the power coursing through her matched only by her desire, and a strong, powerful urge not to let the Time Lord down. “Doctor.”

“What do you want with me?” the Doctor asks, the look of intense longing on her face disappearing in an instant as they fall back into the roles they had agreed with such meticulous care. She attempts to raise her chin defiantly, but her voice trembles as she asks: “What do you want with my ship?”

“Oh, please,” Clara purrs, the smirk returning. “As if I’d tell you. You Time Lords are just so…” she reaches out with a fingertip, running it along the Doctor’s jaw with the barest modicum of physical contact, and yet a spark passes between them at the sudden proximity of their bare skin, and the possibilities it suggests without words. “…unimaginative.”

She watches, entranced, as the Doctor’s pupils dilate, her breath hitching as Clara trails her finger from her chin up to her lips, resting there for a moment before pulling away; rescinding the warmth of her hand like a punishment. The Time Lord can’t help it; she sways towards Clara, chasing the echoing, lingering remnants of the physical contact, and Clara’s hand shoots forward again at once. The look of pathetic gratitude on the Doctor’s face lasts for barely a second as Clara’s fingers land on either side of her throat, squeezing just gently enough to provide a warning, and the Time Lord lets out a shaky laugh as Clara feels her fingers and thumb settle into the sweet spots on either side of her windpipe.

“Unimaginative?” the Doctor manages to ask, her tone breathier than usual but otherwise maddeningly, frustratingly controlled. “Really?” 

“Oh, terribly,” Clara purrs, pouting with exaggerated flair. “You’d never have imagined I’d have you by the throat, would you? And in your own TARDIS too… I mean… it’s so terribly careless of you. A Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey… beaten by a mere human, in the fortress she calls a TARDIS. Tied up. Overpowered. Overcome. It’s laughable.”

“I’m not overcome,” the Doctor growls, the words vibrating under Clara’s palm, and she removes her hand from the Doctor’s windpipe; half-aroused and half-disconcerted by the sensation. She knows, logically, that the Doctor’s respiratory bypass will kick in; it dampens her fun a little to know that the usual gasping for air will not be a pre-determined conclusion, and yet still she feels the lingering need to behave as a human would; to respond physically in the same way she had when she was alive and doing this with a regular human partner. The Doctor looks, to her surprise, almost disappointed by the sudden ceasing of Clara’s grasp on her throat, and somehow this sweetens the moment; she resolves not to permit the Time Lord the same pleasure again. “Does this seem overcome to you?”

“Your eyes are so dark,” Clara counters, her gaze locking with the Doctor’s. “That I can almost see myself in them. And your pulse is so fast that you’re on the verge of just vibrating, full-body, as you let your desire consume you. Are you really trying to tell me that this is… normal?” she cups the Doctor’s cheek again, feeling her tremble at the contact; her skin red-hot to the touch. “Are you really going to tell me that this is something your people do as a matter of course? Because if so… I’m going to be…”

She leans in, her mouth millimetres from the Doctor’s ear; close enough that her breath will ripple over the Time Lord’s skin.

“…offended.”

The Doctor shivers. Tries to hide it, which only makes it all the more delicious, but nonetheless; she shivers, from head to toe, in a manner that Clara had only ever thought to be the preserve of terrible romance novels. It’s delicious, and the power she feels in intoxicating; she sways in her heels for a moment, watching as the Doctor’s breathing accelerates and she pulls, experimentally, at the cords binding her hands.

“Oh no,” Clara warns. “Don’t try to struggle. You look so pretty like that, and I think I’d like to look at you a little longer… and I think I’d like to make you look at _me_ for a little longer, while you’re there thinking about this _strange_ woman in your TARDIS… laying her hands _all over_ your ship… _bending_ it to her will…”

She pulls away from the Doctor and moves to the opposite side of the console, and it’s then that it happens.

The Doctor whimpers.

It’s not a loud sound; it barely carries to Clara, mere feet away, and yet it’s somehow one of the most intimate things she’s ever heard. It’s not merely the vocalisation of a need that the Time Lord only feels comfortable expressing behind closed doors, but it also signals the absolute surrender of her self-control; the loss of higher brain function to something far more instinctive and primal than the Doctor is used to admitting, and it thrills Clara to know that she has caused this; her pride matched by a low, corresponding tug in her abdomen. Clara closes her eyes for a moment, revelling in the knowledge that she has – metaphorically speaking – brought a Time Lord to her knees, and then she smirks to herself, circling the console and running a fingertip over the buttons and levers that dot the panels, flexing her finger as she caresses the crystalline surface in a manner that is just over-exaggerated enough as to be suggestive.

“My,” she says in a low voice, snorting in faux-derision. “Don’t you sound so pretty when you’re desperate? The fact of the matter is… you can’t beat me. You know you can’t beat me. I will take your TARDIS, and I would say that I’d win you over but… I think we both know that I’ve already done that.”

“You haven’t,” the Doctor says in a very small voice, and Clara looks around the central column to where even the dim amber glow of the console room and the Time Lord’s dishevelled hair cannot disguise the fact that she’s blushing ferociously. “You haven’t… I’m not…”

“I heard you whimper.”

The blush intensifies by several hues, and Clara feels a rush of arousal. She’s caused that; she’s rendered the Doctor so laughably, humanly desperate that she’s reduced to nothing more than a series of base reactions; blood, hormones, and involuntary sounds that serve to perfectly communicate her level of need; a need that she won’t so much as verbalise aloud, and yet her body is even now betraying her. Divulging to Clara her arousal; Clara, who is both the cause of and obstacle to her frustration.

“So, you’re not denying it?” Clara asks, her smirk returning. “You want me?”

“I didn’t… that’s not…”

“Admit it.”

“I won’t.”

“I turn you on,” Clara says clearly, completing a slow lap of the console and then stalking towards the Doctor with deliberate, measured steps. “If you admit it… perhaps I might let you keep the ship. The words… for your TARDIS. How does that seem?”

The Doctor remains maddeningly, stubbornly silent, and Clara chuckles, the sound low and menacing in the back of her throat.

“So, this is how you want to play it?” Clara moves closer, pushing one hand through her own hair and letting it cascade around her shoulders as she slowly, deliberately, runs her tongue along her bottom lip, not breaking eye contact with the Doctor as she approaches her. “You don’t want to admit that I’m turning you on?”

“You’re not,” the Doctor says weakly, as Clara draws to a halt in front of her, their bodies mere centimetres apart. “You’re…”

“I’m not?” Clara asks with wide eyed innocence, leaning over and starting to press languid kisses down the Doctor’s neck, feeling her pulse jump under her lips. The Doctor lets out a soft, unconscious murmur of pleasure at the sensation, and Clara smirks against her bare skin.

“No,” the Doctor shakes her head, baring more of her throat to Clara’s ministrations, and Clara rests one hand against the Time Lord’s waist, fingers stroking suggestive patterns against the fabric of her shirt. “No, you’re…”

“Mm?” Clara hums, shifting her attention higher and running her lips, with maddening lightness, along the length of the Doctor’s jaw, letting her exhalations etch invisible patterns across the flushed skin of the Doctor’s neck. “I’m not?”

She slips her hand under the Doctor’s shirt, running a fingertip across the clammy skin of her lower back and feeling the Time Lord arch upwards under the touch, pressing her torso – unavoidably and deliciously – into Clara. A moan half-escapes the Doctor’s mouth, before she presses her treacherous lips shut and shudders as Clara’s fingers trace the curve of her spine.

“No…” the Doctor asserts feebly, closing her eyes and letting out another soft whimper as Clara’s lips press tantalisingly against the corner of her own mouth, leaving behind a faint crimson-hued mark; a ghostly spectre of the embrace. “You’re…”

Clara kisses her then, and the pretence of it all falls away. There’s something about kissing the Doctor that is still so uniquely overwhelming that it robs her of the capacity to concentrate on anything other than that precise moment; the familiarity of it, the millennia of yearning the Time Lord puts into the kiss, the psychic presence making itself known in her mind’s eye. She allows the character she has been endeavouring to play with such diligence to fall away, her hands coming to rest on the Doctor’s waist, and it’s only then that she realises…

“Gotcha,” the Doctor whispers, pulling away from the kiss for long enough to nip softly at Clara’s throat in a chastising manner, and then her hands encircle Clara’s wrists. It’s Clara’s turn to whine then, petulantly and protestingly, because this was supposed to be _her_ game, with the Doctor playing by her rules, but it’s hard to pay much attention to that thought as the Doctor begins to undo the belt of her sleek black coat, pushing it off her shoulders and smirking into her mouth.

“I think,” the Doctor breathes, pulling away again and settling her fingers on Clara’s chin, lest she think about chasing after the kiss – already a temptation – with a smirk of her own. “That I should take you to bed.”

“I think… that is a good idea,” Clara manages. “Very much so.”

“Say please.”

“I…” Clara swallows thickly, her lips slightly open as her breathing grows rapider and shallower. “Please,” she implores, loathing herself for how desperate she sounds. “Please, take me to bed.”

“Well, as you asked so nicely,” the Doctor wrinkles her nose then, seizing the front of Clara’s blouse and pulling her in for a long, positively obscene kiss before asking: “My room, or yours?”


End file.
